


The Psychology of Touch

by endstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief Depictions of Violence, Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Meta, Touch-Starved, Touching, there's a happy ending i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endstiel/pseuds/endstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget.”<br/>― Iain Thomas, <i>I Wrote This For You</i></p><p>A life of neglect leaves Dean touch starved, and an existence where touching wasn't an option, makes Castiel over-sensitive to the feeling of another. Somehow they meet in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Psychology of Touch

**Author's Note:**

> After a conversation on psychology and the human need to feel and touch with [Alena](schrodingers-gay-cousin.tumblr.com), I was inspired to write this. She could probably write it more coherently though uwu

Mary used to hold Dean. 

She used to cradle him in her arms, holding his frail body to her breast and sing him to sleep. 

She used to hold his little hands. Smile as his chubby fingers wrapped around her own. 

She used to kiss him on the forehead and tell him he was special.

Dean used to beam in the love and adoration of his mother.

But that was years ago.

 

A fire took Mary away. It engulfed her, scorching her skin with its burning touch. 

Dean heard once that most people die from the smoke itself, not the fire. It rolls through their lungs, cutting off oxygen and strangles it’s victims to death without the help of hands or a rope to do the trick for them. 

He hoped it was true in his mother’s case.

But seeing the flames tearing up the ceiling, peeling her skin like wallpaper, he knew he was lying to himself.

 

After Mary’s death, John raised his boys like Nero led his army. They hunted to kill and left cities burning in their wake.

He loved his boys. He wanted them to be strong, independent individuals.

But he didn’t love them like a father ought to love his sons.

He loved them like a general loved his soldiers.

 

John didn’t touch his children.

He didn’t hold Sam when his son’s eyes welled up, fearful of killing even the tiniest spider.

He didn’t touch Dean or pat his shoulder when the boy obeyed yet another order.

Maybe he didn’t touch them because he didn’t know how. His father wasn’t there to teach him. His father wasn’t there to touch him, to love him, and to teach him empathy and love.

But that’s no excuse.

He starved his sons.

And their hearts yearned for him.

 

Dean especially became starved for affection. For feeling, for connection.

His skin hungered for it, just for that moment of interaction between two people and their bodies, and he welcomed it in whatever form it came.

 

At first, his pursuit of touch was subtle— he’d find it by ‘accidental’ events like bumping into people while walking or touching people while talking to them. But while those instances were plenty and greatly appreciated, they were also short and emotionless.

So eventually, Dean moved on to more intimate touching.

He’d take someone— either male or female, he didn’t care— back to his motel room or back to their homes and touch them to his liking. Dean would let them do anything, literally _anything_ they wanted, so long as he was able to touch them.

Just the skin to skin, the feeling of someone else’s fingers tracing every angle of his body, was enough for him.

But getting someone to leave a bar with him or sneak into the bathroom wasn’t always easy or possible, and Dean was forced to get creative.

Sometimes he’d fuck up on a hunt or piss off his father or some random guy at a bar just for the hell of it and close his eyes as their fists cracked against his bones.

Those times were tough and hurt like a bitch, leaving behind broken bones, bloody noses, and purple bruises, but in the moment— as their fists would touch his skin for that brief moment— he accepted their blows like a baby accepted a mother’s kiss.

 

Even now, even years later, he still starves to be touched. He still needs it to survive, he still needs it to remember he exists. 

He’ll hug his family, friends, and even strangers, bringing them close to his chest and wishing he wouldn’t let go. 

He’ll still ‘accidentally’ bump into people in grocery stores or offer his hand to shake when meeting people.

And he’ll still let himself reach out and touch Castiel.

He lets himself to touch him mindlessly— to take Castiel’s hand thoughtlessly and hold it in his own, his thumb stroking Castiel’s skin in small circles. He lets himself pull Castiel close and preen in his affection. He lets himself sigh as he feels Castiel’s scruff graze his skin when they hug.

 

* * *

Castiel is an angel— a being born of celestial matter and condensed energy.

He is not human. He is not of Earth.

He is not ‘he,’ per say, in that it’s a word, a pronoun forced upon him by lower-dimensional beings to describe state of who and what he is. 

When he takes on this vessel, when he takes on this material, human form ‘he’ becomes he.

Though he is not ‘ _he_ ,’ he is an angel.

 

Angels are not material beings. They do not have the sense of touch or that need to feel the presence of another. They don’t crave it like humans do, like Dean does. Which is why it confuses him. It makes him uncomfortable.

In his human form, he hadn’t been touched before he met Dean. In his true form as celestial energy, there was no need. It wasn’t possible. The option was never there.

But now, with Dean’s fingers running up and down his forearm is overwhelming.

He can feel everything.

He can feel the atoms and molecules of Dean’s body mingling with his own.

He can feel the heat of Dean’s fingertips burning hot lines into his skin.

And he can feel the weight of the world, entire multitudes of organisms and cells growing, living, and dying in Dean’s body as it touches his own.

And it scares Castiel.

He remembers how fragile Dean is. How human, how soft, how breakable Dean is.

Dean is of Earth and he yearns for Earthly things. 

He yearns for love, for touch, and affection.

And yearns for these things in Castiel.

But Castiel is not of Earth.

He is not of flesh and blood.

He doesn’t understand what that yearning for touch and affection means. 

But he wants to.

He wants to feel that need.

_For Dean_.

And maybe that’s enough.  

Just that urge to want to feel that is Earthly in itself. It’s so incredibly human.

He’s ‘halfway there’ as Dean would say, and maybe that’s enough for now.

Castiel wants to feel that need to be touched, and he wants to feel it for Dean.

So he ignores his over-sensitivity to touch, that burn of skin to skin and the cycle of organisms that Dean fuels by just being alive, and he doesn’t shy away when Dean pulls him close.

Because just by being close, and _wanting_ to touch, he becomes more Earthly, and thus, closer to Dean, closer to touch.


End file.
